Sanctuary
by woodstocksyndrome
Summary: After a rough hunt, the brothers are left with few weapons to fight with. So, Bobby suggests the Devil's Nest, a hunter's shop occupied by two particular hunters, including a psychic, haunted by a vengeful, stubborn spirit.


**I had an idea in my head and decided to write it out.**

**Funny.**

**I never write fanfics.**

**Let alone read them.**

**Anyway. Enjoy!**

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chapter 1 : Sanctuary

The black '67 Impala croaked sleepily as its trunk lifted open to reveal a very small assortment of weapons that have been especially used against numerous demonic creatures. Aside from a single box of silver ammo, a plastic twisted jug of half-empty (or half-full) holy water, and a slightly bent throwing knife, the trunk was unusually empty tonight. It caused an unsatisfied hook to appear upon the eldest hunter's lip as he sighed heavily, a air of hopelessness about him.

"What?" the younger man beside him said, looking completely oblivious about the current issue. Unlike the other, he was fairly built, with dirty-blond hair and shady green eyes. Dark rings had grown beneath his eyes, but he otherwise seemed untroubled. He was biting a green apple contently, a bit of its sour flesh slobbering against the corner of his mouth, which he then wiped with his sleeve.

"Well," the older hunter said, clenching his teeth and stroking his beard. "You're not going to get very far if you're plannin' on beatin' the apocalypse with this junk."

"Ouch," the green-eyed one said. "That hurt my feelings."

The youngest of the three made to peek inside the trunk and hissed in concern at the realization that the old man was right: with a couple of shells and barely any iron, they might as well abandon now. "No offense, Dean, but I think it's about time we had a reload."

"Oh yeah?" Dean scoffed, looking baffled. "And where do you expect we find rock-salt rounds, Captain Bitchface? Wal-Mart? We don't exactly have time to make them, either."

"Not Wal-Mart," Bobby, the oldest of the hunters retorted. His last words were pronounced in a whisper, as though the single mention of it was taboo. "The Devil's Nest."

Dean quirked a brow, but his brother inquired before him. "What's the Devil's Nest?"

-------

Within a few hours, Bobby had lead them to downtown Chicago. His stomach growling shamelessly, Dean was beginning to find it difficult to drive on rush hour. Soon enough, Bobby pointed to a narrow orange-flaking building squished between two others, taking away all its pride by making it look rusty and abandoned. Although Bobby had named it The Devil's Nest, there was no sign in the front of the store, nor was there any address. In fact, it looked like it could only be inhabited by street cats and cobwebs.

"There it is." Bobby said.

In response, Dean followed the man's gaze mockingly, trying and failing to find the so-called 'hunter's shop'. Clearly, there was nothing there.

"I hope you mean behind the heap of _nothing_." Dean said, slamming the door shut once they've parked.

Annoyed, Bobby ignored his comment, leading the two brothers to the front door in silence. As they arrived, Dean noticed familiar protection markings all alongside the door frame. They've been cleanly etched with a knife, then filled in with china ink. He nudged Sam in the side with his elbow, gesturing towards it to see if he would recognize it as well.

Before they could do much more, the door creaked open. The three were greeted by a thin yet athletic-looking woman. She had strong features and blond-dyed hair, with full voluptuous lips and a pair of rectangular glasses on top of her nose. She reminded Dean of those cop women on CSI or Without A Trace, no younger than himself. _Splendid._

"Bobby!" The woman exclaimed as she allowed the three inside. "It's been too long. What can I do for you?"

Dean nearly choked when a whiff of incense flew up his nostrils. Four of them were lit up from a counter with jars full of them, organized by color near a bouquet of shrunken heads. Tiny electric lights and netting were set up messily above him, and all upon the walls, an array of tribal masks and different types of bladed weapons hung proudly. Antique books and items were placed on different shelves, tempting Sam to read some of them.

All this was stuffed in the lobby, along with a few cardboard boxes filled with things enveloped in newspaper. Behind this room, Dean could see the rest of the first floor, but judging by the lack of on-sale items there, he suspected it was where the shop-owner lived. Dean was paying little attention to the woman and Bobby's conversation, attracted by a bright table displaying throwing knives of many kinds. It was a miracle they've managed to fit all this in so little space. Actually, he expected the building to fall apart, what with its ancient, thin walls and semi-complete ceilings.

"So, who've you brought along this time?" said the shop-owner, whose name Dean heard from Bobby as Pat.

"Winchester."

Although Bobby had opened his mouth to speak, it was not him who replied. Instead, a young gloomy-looking boy appeared carrying a box in his arms, a pair of empty mis-matched eyes staring over idly. He was sickly pale, and rather thin, and looked as though he'd been dieting on dust-bunnies for two weeks. Dean couldn't help but shiver at his appearance, and his attention was especially drawn to those magnificent eyes: while one was hazel, the other was an icy blue, It looked almost... inhuman.

Sam swallowed hard. "How did you--?"

"Oh, this is Alex. He's a psychic. Hey, can you go put the salt in those water bottles? Thanks, hun." Pat ordered the boy, wrapping a crossbow in newspaper. He left obediently, throwing Sam a short yet meaningful glance, despite the lack of emotion.

Dean cleared his throat once the boy was gone. "So.... what's with the early clear-out?"

Pat froze, looking up at Dean dangerously as she slammed the box against the table. "Don't you see what's going on out there?" She said in a stiff voice, trying to keep a normal tone. "Everything's out of control. We're leaving the city. If the demons find us, we're all dead."

"If you don't do anything you'll be dead anyway!" Dean snapped.

Pat shook her head, her eyes bloodshot. "We can't fight them with so few of us. It's the end of the world. I just want to spend it as far away from all this as possible. I'd like an _easy_ end."

"Don't you have even the slightest amount of faith that we might win?" Sam said, fearing the answer.

The woman pursed her lips and shrugged. "Not really."

Dean was about to yell, his fists curled tightly, but Bobby stopped him before he could move another muscle. She was stubborn, for sure, and her lack of hope was truly getting on his nerves. He took a deep breath, as though swallowing whatever he might've spat at her if he hadn't been stopped. "But, um, you're still selling right?"

"Well, sure." Pat replied, a crooked smile upon her lips. "If you can pay for it." She returned her attention to her boxes, returning to her 'saleslady-self'. "It's pretty late. Feel free to use the bunks downstairs if you like."

"Thanks, Pat." Bobby said sincerely.


End file.
